


Every Moment Since

by AlexandraCole



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-18 12:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11873922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexandraCole/pseuds/AlexandraCole
Summary: A look into the lives of Alana, Jack, Chilton, and Molly, two years after the disappearance of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham.





	1. Alana

**Author's Note:**

> This is just my little contribution for the #Itsstillbeautiful fest, and takes place — coincidentally, I swear — two years after TWotL. 
> 
> Un-beated. Sorry ^_^’

Alana enters the dark kitchen with a smile on her face. Behind her the swinging door closes, muffling the sound of voices and laughter. The dim beams of light that manage to filter between the gaps of the door and the faint moonlight entering from the double window of the kitchen are lighting enough, so she doesn’t turn on the lights. In any case, she won’t take long. 

She walks over to the fridge and takes out the chocolate and vanilla cake Morgan chose at the patisserie a week ago. Alana closes the door of the fridge with her elbow and then sets the cake on the kitchen counter.

She is rummaging through a drawer — where she is certain she left the birthday candles — when suddenly her eyes widen, her breathing stops, and her hands freeze.

Out of the corner of her eye, she is certain she has seen a shadow moving swiftly past the window.

A shiver runs down her spine and Alana grabs the first knife she sees. She quickly returns her eyes to the window as her grip on the knife unconsciously tightens. She waits.

The trees outside sway softly with the wind, but there’s nothing more.

Still she can’t move. She has her eyes fixed on the window, her breathing slow and calm, her grip on the knife tight.

Nothing. 

Not even a bird, or a sound. Just the slow swaying of the trees.

_Your wife…your child…they belong to me_

_F_ or a second she is back in that house again, gun raised, heart pounding in her chest as she slowly walks through the entrance, as she turns on the hallway to make her way into the kitchen…

_Don’t be brave, Alana_

Alana slams the knife against the marble of the counter.

“Have you got the cake?” she hears a voice ask behind her and Alana quickly steels herself. The kitchen lights up momentarily as Margot walks in, falling back to its relative darkness the minute the door closes once more.

Alana tries to hide her agitation by rummages through the drawer she has left open.

“Yeah, I was just…” she makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, finally spotting the candles she had almost forgotten about.

“I couldn’t find the candles,” she says, opening the package and placing five green candles on the cake. A firm hand settles on her waist and Alana frowns.

“Is everything okay?” Margot asks, concern evident in her voice.

“Yeah, sure. Mind giving me a hand with the knife and the pie server?” Alana asks, faking a smile as she briefly turns towards Margot —making sure to avoid eye contact, turning her head back before Margot can tell she isn’t okay.

“Sure,” Margot says, opening another drawer to take out the pie server, grabbing the knife from the counter. 

Alana takes out a lighter and brings the candles to life.

Margot walks in front of Alana and holds the door open for her. Alana turns her head towards her wife and gives her a quick smile. She refuses to believe she only did so to steal a quick glance past Margot, at the window, to make sure everything is calm and quiet as it always is.

_Your wife…your child…they belong to me_

The voice is pushed back at the sight of Morgan and his toothless grin, and drowned by the chorus of voices that merrily sing happy birthday to the five-year old as Alana brings in the cake with the sparkly candles…but the echoes never quite fade away.

As Morgan is making his wish, Alana thinks of the revolver she always makes sure is loaded.

*_-_*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so each chapter is about one character, or set of characters. Most chapters are already written and will be posted daily until August 25th. I'm still struggling with the last one though, but I have two days to figure it out.
> 
> Hope this wasn’t too terrible and thanks for reading. Your kudos and comments are much appreciated too :)


	2. Molly

“No, it’s okay, I can manage,” Molly says as she walks hurriedly past Walter and their dogs to put down the groceries on the kitchen table, “but there are still more bags in the car,” she adds, and Walter is on it in an instant.

Molly puts down the heaviest bags first, making sure there’s nothing breakable or crushable at the bottom, and that the bags are at a safe distance from nosy snouts.

Walter is back with his arms full of bags too and Molly goes for a second round. There’s only a couple of things left in the trunk and she picks them up with ease. She locks the car with one hand and as she makes her way inside she meets Walter halfway.

“That was all,” she says, but Walter reaches out towards her to grab one of the bags.

“Here, let me,” he says. Molly is about to protest—the bag’s not heavy at all—but she decides otherwise; good manners should be encouraged.

“Thank you,”

Walter walks back into the kitchen and Molly can’t help but smile; children indeed grow too fast. He’ll be fifteen soon and while he can be a handful sometimes, she’s certain he will become a fine young man…despite it all. Or, perhaps, because of it. Molly shudders at the thought. She joins Walter in the kitchen and both begin to unpack their groceries.

Molly is telling Walter how she couldn’t find the shampoo he likes so much, and of that lady with an attitude in front of her at the queue, when she suddenly notices her son is unusually quiet.

“Everything okay?” she asks, opening one of the pantry doors to place a marmalade jar inside.

“Sure” Walter answers, but Molly closes the door and turns to face him, arms crossed over her chest. He shrugs, trying to be dismissive. He takes out a few items more from the shopping bag before he huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” Walter says, exasperated,“the lawyer called,” he says, busying himself with the dairy, opening the fridge and placing everything perishable inside.

Molly stiffens, but she tries to keep the strain out of her voice when next she speaks, “He left a message, I assume,”

“He said the insurance papers will be ready next week, and that you should call him to set a date,”

Molly nods. One of the dogs stands on her legs, begging for food, and she gently ushers him down.

It would have been easier —although no less painful—if she had had a regular divorce, just like the one she had begun to draft in her mind after Will visited her in the hospital. But instead of a healthy and clean break up, she — and Walter — had to go through months and months of court summons, statements, and a brief period of police protection until “missing” officially became “presumed dead”, and Molly could find herself officially a widow for the second time in her life.

It would’ve been almost bearable if it hadn’t been for the tabloids and that insufferable Freddie Lounds. And Molly doesn’t say that only for her sake, but for Walter’s too. He was just beginning to deal with the aftermath of their attack when he found himself amidst impertinent questions, outrageous allegations and down-right fantastic stories, cooked up by the unscrupulous minds of sensationalist reporters.

Molly isn’t surprised Walter wants to distance himself from everything related to Will. After the circus their lives turned into, their new-found peace is something to be cherished and protected, and she understands why Walter wants nothing to do with insurances and why he changed his last name back to Foster. Oregon has offered them a new beginning and this time Molly has vowed to be smarter, to do better. For Walter. Because nothing else matters, except her son.

*_-_*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was chapter 2. Thank you for all the lovely feedback so far!!


	3. Frederick

Frederick smiles at his reflection in the mirror. He is not smiling because he particularly feels like it, but because he _can_. 

Sure, he has the world’s thinnest lips now, but after his extensive skin grafting, multiple — and painful — cosmetic surgeries, and his substantial investment in makeup, hair transplants, and other diverse but necessary procedures, the man in the mirror finally resembles something Frederick can recognise.

He stands straighter, puffing out his chest, turning his head in a three-quarter profile — his good side — and raises an eyebrow at the sight. Frederick knows he is a far cry from the man he used to be, true, but if the doctors are right, there is still much work to be done. Room for improvement. Like a blank canvas. 

Frederick frowns.

That’s not a very cheerful thought. Anyway, at least now he does not stand out in a crowd. From afar. He is completely unremarkable.

The corners of his lips fall. 

He can see the sneer in Lecter’s face, he can even hear the witty one-liner the infuriating man would have probably said. And the fact that it was Hannibal’s…— well, whatever Will Graham is to Hannibal —  who caused him to be this scarred — unfortunately, literally — must surely be a source of infinite pride for Hannibal Lecter.

Frederick is scowling now, and the fact that he can do that is also a wonder. Hannibal and Will, Will and Hannibal. Who would have thought? Well, at least he was not the one who introduced them.

God, what he wouldn’t give to know what Jack is thinking now. Now, that his protégé has finally showed his true colours. Frederick always knew there was something wrong about Will Graham…fine, everyone always knew there was something wrong with him, but Frederick always suspected there was something darker lurking behind the mask. If only he had been ab—

His phone beeps and Frederick takes out his cell phone from his pocket to read the incoming message.

He smiles. Again.

He has spent a fortune getting himself to look human gain, but at least his encounter with Dolarhyde was not a complete tragedy: his new book has been a huge success. It has not toped the charts like his previous one — at this, Frederick gives an involuntarily eye roll — but it could. Soon. The book on the Red Dragon has something Hannibal the Cannibal had not: first-hand experience. As someone who was…shall we say, privy, to the darkest recess of the Dragon’s mind, the book offers a unique approach. A very profitable one.

Yes, Dolarhyde might have taken something away from him, but Frederick managed to snatch something from the madman after all: exclusivity, and loads and loads of money. Or at least enough to recover from all the medical expenses and, yeah, maybe a little bit extra.

But his crowning glory is that now, with Hannibal and Will on the loose — because of course they are not dead, for someone’s sake — Alana and her family are out of the picture and Frederick has returned to his rightful place as the general administrator for the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

If there were a God, Frederick would have both, Hannibal and Will Graham, as his honoured guests. But who knows, there might still be time, the night is young.

*_-_*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here's Mr. Chilton. I read somewhere that Chilton is the sole character of the show who uses less contractions when he speaks, so I almost didn't use them for this fic.  
> Thanks for all your kudos!


	4. Jack

A dozen of tourists stand all over the Cosmati flooring, craning their necks as they eagerly take photographs of the sumptuous wooden ceiling, of the Arab patterns on the walls, of the Greek mosaics that form the image of the Christ Pantocrator right above the centre of the altar — where an elderly Chinese woman and her husband are taking a selfie they will later show to their friends and family once they return from their trip to Palermo. 

All of them stare at the sacred images as the guide explains to them details of the construction and the history of the Chapel. Some listen with rabid interest, others just nod, looking forward to the end of the tour to go back to the city centre and try some real Sicilian cannoli.

All except for one.

Jack stands to the right of the altar, at a safe distance from the tourists and their cell phones and their cameras. He stares at the space before him, where few now know once stood a human body — cut, broken, folded, and stitched together in the shape of a heart.

To be honest, he didn’t expect to find them here. Not any more than he did when he went to Florence. He knows that wherever they are now, they will never physically return to this place. Yet Jack needed to be certain. He’s aware he’s acting like a dog who has lost the scent, sniffing around the spot where he was sure he last had it, but being here was preferable to sitting in his house, staring at the pixelated face of a dead man he once knew.

Because Will Graham is dead. That is the official story.

Hannibal Lecter and the former profiler fought each other after their fight against Francis Dolarhyde and ended up going over the cliff. Together. Their bodies never to be recovered, courtesy of the currents of the Atlantic. It doesn’t matter that there’s evidence enough to contradict the chronology, that Jimmy and Zee begrudgingly admitted that despite the amount of blood both men lost and the possible injuries they sustained, there was a slight possibility that one, or both, could be alive. In the end, all that matters is that two monsters and one mentally unstable collaborator were gone and that the general public could feel safe again.

Well…that’s not good enough for Jack.

He tried to live it with it, to make his peace with the world and find something else to focus on. But there is just one tiny little thing that keeps him up at night, that eats at his brain, that intrudes upon his waking hours and refuses to be ignored: doubt. 

After Miriam Lass shot Frederick Chilton, Jack swore he would never doubt Will Graham again and he didn’t: not when he saw the body of Randall Tier, maimed and staged in the museum; not when he learned of the phone call between Hannibal and Will the night Hannibal was supposed to be caught; not when Will confessed his desire to run away with Lecter; not even when Will suggested they lay a trap for the Dragon by staging Hannibal’s escape. Hell, Jack hadn’t even doubted when he got the call telling him that Dolarhyde had killed the entire security detail and that Will Graham was missing with Hannibal Lecter probably on the loose.

Because regardless of how bad things looked or how crazy the plan was, Jack knew in his gut that Will would always do the right thing in the end, and Jack trusted his own instincts above everything else. But then, Jack saw the body of Francis Dolarhyde, he saw and listened to the Dragon’s tape…and now he is riddled with doubt.

Had he push too far? Or had the truth been there all along, before his eyes, but Jack had simply refused to see it? 

Regardless of the reason, Jack knows he won’t rest until he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think these last two have been shorter than the first two, but hopefully the last chapter will make up for it.  
> Thanks for all your kudos and comments :)


	5. Will

It’s getting dark and the city is bustling with life. People are dancing on the cobblestone streets, sharing drinks, laughing, smoking…as if it were one big block party. The music carries over to the balcony where Will is enjoying the cool breeze. It’s a warm night this night — like all the other nights since they arrived. He’s dressed only in a pale blue short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts. During the day the heat can be almost unbearable, but at night it is quite pleasant.

He’s looking at a couple of kids playing tag when he hears Hannibal stepping into the balcony. Will doesn’t turn around. Hannibal walks over to Will and Will can feel him pause briefly behind him, just for a second, before Hannibal decides to merely lean against the handrail next to him.

Both are facing in opposite directions, neither speaks. There’s only the cool breeze, the warm night, and the music. Somehow will has tuned out the rest. He’s acutely aware of Hannibal’s proximity; he can smell Hannibal’s pleasant aroma —a subtle mix of his cologne and something uniquely his — and he can feel the heat radiating from the other man. Will has slowed his breathing, but there's still a pounding on his chest.

Hannibal shifts. Not by much, but enough to stand a fraction closer to Will, and Will can no longer hear the music. He’s just focused on that inviting warmth next to him that is becoming increasingly harder to ignore. He doesn’t have to turn his head to know Hannibal is looking at him, expectant.

After a minute or two, Hannibal straightens up, clearly intent on walking away. Out of reflex, Will’s hand moves of its own accord to stop him; his fingers brush slightly against Hannibal’s when he walks past him and Hannibal stops, but he doesn’t turn around.

Neither moves. 

They are frozen in place for a few uncertain seconds before Will decides it’s enough. With more confidence now, he seeks out Hannibal’s hand; he traces Hannibal’s knuckles with his fingers, he caresses the back of Hannibal’s hand with his own. Hannibal just stands there, impassive, but Will isn’t deterred. He takes Hannibal’s hand and lifts it to his lips for a quick kiss — an apology.

Hannibal finally turns his head at that. His expression is unreadable, but Will just gives him a half smile. He begins to nuzzle Hannibal’s hand, kissing the tip of his fingers now and then, and it doesn’t take longer for Will to feel a finger brushing against his lips, tracing his cupid’s bow. Will smiles in earnest now and playfully bites it. In one swift motion Hannibal is flush against him, forcing Will back into the handrail. 

Will leans his forehead on the crook of Hannibal’s neck and closes his eyes, wallowing in the warmth of their tight embrace. He can hear Hannibal’s steady heartbeat, he can feel his own chest rise and fall with every breath taken…Will idly wonders when will Hannibal realise he’s just teasing now, that Will is no longer capable of walking away or rejecting him.

The lines that once held them apart are completely faded now, blurred. They have both melded with each other and created something new, the limits of which they are still eagerly discovering.

Will straightens up this time and stares at Hannibal, who is staring right at him with that profound adoration in his eyes. Will gives him a faint smile, and lifts a hand to brush a strand of Hannibal’s greying hair back.

“We should be going, lest we miss our dinner,” Hannibal says, with that infuriatingly smug micro expression of his.

“You think you are so clever, don’t you?” Will says, but his smile softens the biting remark and Hannibal gives him a soft wicked smile.

“I’ll let the evidence speak for itself,”

“Fine, you can be…sometimes,”

“Sometimes?”

“Oh, please, most of your puns are terrible,”

Hannibal actually frowns at this, disentangling himself from Will.

“Many would disagree,”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,”

“Now who thinks he’s being clever?”

*_-_*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so S4 may or may not happen. I’m excited and curious about some of the things that have been said, others worry me, but regardless of what the future holds I think it’s still beautiful ;)
> 
> I wished the chapters had been longer, but hopefully it was still okay? Thank you once more for all your feedback!


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